


didn't go to church (but i got blessed)

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Senate Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 04:52:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14128491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: "There are," he continues, louder, clearing his throat. "There are ways to have sex that don't involve. You know. Condoms. Birth control."





	didn't go to church (but i got blessed)

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this prompt](https://podsavethekink.dreamwidth.org/659.html?thread=67475#cmt67475) on the kink meme, which asked for tommy/always-a-girl favs; cleaned up here. title from "time of our lives" by pitbull & neyo.

"I mean, obviously I believe in contraception," Jon's saying when Tommy comes back in from the kitchen with a glass of water.

Jon's half-lying on Alyssa's couch, brandishing the beer bottle in her hand to make her point, ponytail bouncing as she shakes her head. Tommy honestly has no idea how they migrated to this topic, but he and Reggie and Jon have all been lazing around Alyssa's apartment for hours after grabbing Sunday brunch, because it's the only place that seems to have functional AC in the entire city. They can't be blamed for some conversational drift.

"I believe in all reproductive rights," Jon continues, emphatic. "Who do you think I am?"

"The Senator will be real pleased to hear you say that," Alyssa says, dry.

"I just, uh—" She flops back onto the couch with a sigh, deflating a little. "Holy Cross was a Jesuit school, so they didn't have free condoms, and my parents weren't ever that traditional about a whole bunch of stuff, but Dad was always kind of intense about birth control, so. It's like how—" She takes a deep breath. "It's like how some people wouldn't get an abortion themselves, but they'd absolutely defend anyone else's right to choose it. Our stance is literally called pro-choice."

"Wait, Favs," Alyssa says, faintly alarmed. "Are you saying you don't use protection?" She meets Tommy's eyes over Jon's head, and Tommy—should probably not be hearing this, holy shit. He should go find Reggie, wherever he is, and get out of here so Jon can pour her heart out to Alyssa in peace, but he feels rooted to the spot. His feet won't fucking move.

"No, that's not," Jon continues, faltering. "That's not what I meant. I've just never really hooked up, I guess. Is that pathetic?"

"Oh, honey, of course not," Alyssa replies, and Tommy clears his throat, his stomach sinking as Jon jerks upright to stare at him, face flushed pink, fingers clenched tight around her beer.

"Hi," Tommy says inanely. He takes a sip of his water, manages not to spill it all over himself like an idiot.

"Hi," Jon says, voice too light to be truly casual, and nearly falls off the couch when she tries to peer around him. "Where's, uh—"

"I think Reggie's in the bathroom." He drains the rest of the glass, wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, sets the empty cup down onto the coffee table. "Alyssa, Mike said our AC was back up, so I'm gonna head back to the house," he lies. "Thanks for having us."

"See you tomorrow, bright and early," Alyssa says, and Tommy goes.

 

 

Jon doesn't make it back till later in the afternoon, when the sun's about to slip past the tops of the houses around them. Tommy's sitting in his room typing emails out on his Blackberry, wearing as little clothing as he can get away with, a flimsy tank shirt and a pair of ugly swim trunks that actually breathe in this heat. Summer in the swamp is fucking miserable, but at least he has a few fans set up.

He glances up when someone knocks on his door frame. Jon looks like she's sobered up, lounging against the smooth wood, hair in a messy bun now to hold it up off her neck. "I thought you said the air conditioning was working again," she says, brow furrowed.

"Went down again," Tommy says, and Jon fixes him with an unimpressed expression. "Okay, okay. I wanted to give you some time alone, if you wanted it."

Jon chews on her lower lip for a minute. "How much did you hear?"

Tommy swallows. His face feels like it's going burn off. "Enough," he says, and then, because he can't help himself: "You've really never—?"

Jon reaches up to palm her neck, ducks her head, both familiar tells by now. "Nah," she says, throat working. "Like—there was some fingerbanging in the library at Holy Cross, heavy petting, but it wasn't that great, honestly."

Tommy tries on a smile. "College dudes are pretty much universally terrible at sex," he acknowledges. Her eyes catch on him again. "I can confirm; I used to be one."

Jon laughs, which is good. "You aren't one anymore, though," she says, taking a step in the door, and Tommy doesn't really know what's happening here, but he does know he wants Jon to keep laughing. He'd do a lot of things for that laugh.

"No, I'm not," Tommy says. His voice comes out too low. "There are," he continues, louder, clearing his throat. "There are ways to have sex that don't involve. You know. Condoms. Birth control."

For a moment, Jon freezes.

"It's not a big deal, Jon," Tommy hears himself say, far more relaxed than he feels. "I can show you, if you like."

Jon's eyes go wide and then narrow, her head tilting. Tommy watches a wisp of her hair fall out of the bun and curl around her neck. "You would do that for me?"

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, before he can chicken out. "A hundred percent."

Jon's jaw works, like she's turning the idea over in her head. Tommy holds his breath. "Okay," she says, and turns on her heel to deliberately lock the door.

 _Holy shit_ , Tommy says, shoving his phone onto the bedside table and standing, wiping his sweaty palms against his—God, his stupid swimming shorts. _Be cool, Vietor_. It seems a little late for that, but Jon's here anyway, so maybe he's done something right in all of this.

She's still wearing the floral sundress she had on at brunch; the skirt is kind of crumpled now. "So," she says, turning back around, eyes bright, chin set. "Where do you want me?"

"Lie back," he says, gesturing at the bed. He's never been more thankful that he's neat, that on zero notice his room is somewhat presentable, no dirty socks tucked in the sheets or piles of laundry to move. Jon lives across the hall, has seen his room before, has even sat on this very bed swapping notes about the latest piece of legislation working its way through the Senate or yelling about the Red Sox, but this is—this is totally different.

"And think of England?" Jon says, watching him watch her sink back against the mattress.

Tommy huffs. "And think of whatever you want," he says, and reaches out to pull her closer to the edge of the bed, hands fitting around her hips.

She raises her eyebrows, uncomprehending until Tommy slides to his knees, face level with her crotch. The delicate knob of Jon's ankle rotates in the palm of Tommy's hand when he grabs one, helps her bend her knee and plant her foot next to his head. She lets out a tiny hiccup of a breath when Tommy leans in and trails his fingers along the hem of her dress, sneaks one hand underneath the soft fabric to brush his thumb against the taut skin of her inner thigh.

"Tom," she says, throaty, and props herself up on her elbows. "Are you sure?"

As a rule, Tommy doesn't make a habit of sexualizing his colleagues. Sometimes, walking through the halls of the Capitol building and talking to Senator Obama, Tommy still feels like a kid play-acting as an adult. Jon, though—Jon's been on this ride with him for the past eighteen months, beautiful and brilliant, the whiz kid speechwriter who gets nervous on airplanes and yells obscenities at the TV when they're watching the Patriots play; she isn't just a colleague. If Tommy's being completely honest, he's thought about this before in the dark nights of the soul, thought about sliding a hand in her loose hair and pulling her into a kiss, thought about sinking to his knees and holding her close. Hasn't been able to help himself.

"Sure?" she repeats, reaching out to place a trembling hand on his brow.

 _With you?_ he thinks, flicking his eyes up to meet hers. _Always._

It seems like too much to say, so he just smiles and nods, hooks an index finger in the elastic of Jon's underwear beneath her dress, starts tugging them down. She lifts her hips to help him along, and then her hands are sliding into his hair, nails scraping down his scalp as they sink in.

Tommy leans forward, can already smell the clean wetness in between her legs. He hooks one of her calves over his shoulder. "This okay?" he murmurs, and she nods back, tip of her tongue held between her teeth.

He lets his own tongue dart out over his lips, steadily assessing, and doesn't bother hiding his smile when Jon's breath hitches again in expectation, hands clenching in his hair.

If this is the only time he'll get to do this, he wants to make it last—wants to make it perfect. The material of her dress bunches up around her waist, and she twitches as he ducks closer, blows lightly over her clit, the neatly trimmed hair above it.

"Tickles," she murmurs, squirming, and Tommy brings his hands up again to hold her in place.

"Mm," Tommy says, and then bends his head without warning, licks a single, long stripe up from the base of her pussy.

Jon makes a shocked noise, thighs flexing around his head. "Jesus Christ," she chokes out, and Tommy grins up at her.

"What would the reverends at Holy Cross say about that kind of language?"

"Ugh," Jon says, but she's laughing as she shakes her head. "You're such a dick."

Tommy ducks back in again, taking his time, dipping his tongue inside her. She tastes warm and slightly tangy. She lets out a shaky sigh, hips rising off the bed of their own volition, sagging back against one of Tommy's pillows. Stares down at him, big brown eyes liquid in the afternoon light.

He gives her long, broad licks until her legs are trembling, and then he presses deeper, nose cresting against the trim and tongue plunging as deep as it'll go. "Oh my God," she yells, and then claps a hand over her mouth.

"Don't," Tommy says, muffled, and has to pull back and repeat himself. "I wanna hear you," he says, which makes her flush, and moves his lips up and sucks on her clit, a slick mixture of saliva and come spread out over his chin.

"Fuck, Tommy," she says, and her fingers card through his hair, twisting and pulling hard enough to sting a little. "You're so—you're—"

Tommy hums against her, smiling when she thrashes and tries to grind against his mouth, breath wheezing through her lips, as if every wriggle of his tongue is driving the air right out of her lungs. It seems impossible that no one has ever done this for her, that no one has ever had the privilege of holding Jon down and taking her apart with his mouth.

He bobs his head back and forth, licking at the nub of her clit, and she nearly bucks off the bed. He squeezes his hands tighter around the firm bones of her pelvis, and she lets out a high whine, the heels of her feet knocking between his shoulder blades.

Tommy hasn't even been thinking about himself, but he realizes, as he shifts on his knees, that he's so hard he's pressing up against his shorts. It was already unbearably warm in the house, and now he feels even warmer, overheated. He reaches down and brushes the heel off his hand against the bulge to take some of the edge off, and can't quite bring himself to move it away again.

His eyes flick up to look for Jon's face. Her head's bent so far back into the bed that all he can see is the smooth column of her neck, chest heaving in the confines of her dress, the skirt rucked up enough that he can see her abdomen tensed up in the cool air. "Tommy," she says, breathless, drawing the vowels out, nails scraping against his scalp, and he thinks, _fuck it_ , can't bring himself to care about whether or not it'll seem too desperate, dips his hand into his shorts and starts jacking himself. His hand is too dry, and he's going too fast, but it doesn't matter.

What matters is the lovely arch of her body, the ragged part of her breath, how she goes stiff when she comes, knees locking over his shoulders, arms wrapping around the back of his head, thighs clenching so hard that Tommy sees stars. A heavy rush of wetness hits his tongue; he tries his best to swallow it all down, suck her through it. She's loud, moaning, like she doesn't know how to keep quiet. Tommy's going to be hearing that in his dreams for a long time.

Another couple of strokes and he's spilling in his swim shorts, shuddering as his hips twitch. He slides his tongue against Jon's clit, can't stop, feels her buck up and come again, maybe, oversensitive and shivering.

Tommy would stay here for hours if he could, but Jon loosens up in increments, legs falling open. 

He pulls back, wipes a hand over the lower half of his face as she lifts her head and gazes at him, reaches out to curl a hand against his ear. A fine sheen of sweat has formed on her skin, and her mouth is bitten red. She looks fucking incredible. "So," he says, surprised by how gravelly his voice comes out. "What's the verdict? Better than the fingerbanging?"

Jon laughs, low and rough. "Much better, thanks," she says. She hesitates for a moment and then gestures down at him, biting her lip. "Do you need, um—"

"No," he says too quickly, and then shakes his head when her face closes off. "Not that I wouldn't—" He levers himself up onto the bed so she can see the spreading stain at the front of his shorts. "I already… earlier, while I was eating you out. I already came. It, uh, didn't take a lot."

"Oh," she says, hushed. "I—"

"It was," Tommy says, feeling his face flood red. "You were—really hot." _You're always really hot_ , he doesn't say. _You're always really everything._

Jon ducks her head. "Well," she says, scooting up so she's sitting against the wall, legs crossed primly beneath her dress again. If it weren't for her mussed hair, it would look like nothing at all had happened, except that Tommy can still taste her in his mouth. Jesus. "Next time I can help you with that, maybe. If you want."

"Oh, yeah?" Tommy says, breath catching on the _next time_. He slides the rest of the way up to sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder, shorts pulling against the drying jizz on his skin. He needs to wash up, probably, but he can't bring himself to move away, not when Jon's still sitting here, listing against him, warm and present.

"Yeah," Jon says, smiling sideways at him, small and private. It's more than Tommy could've imagined getting, and it makes something in his chest ache. He'll take it.


End file.
